Fencebusters

Bored (i.e., rich) teenagers are busting fences as a form of entertainment. According to a recent story in The New York Times, suburban Long Island (New York) teens run at and hurl themselves into wooden fences separating neighbors, sending themselves and slats flying. Then they brag about it by displaying images or videos of their, um, performance art on various Web sites.

It's called fence-plowing or fence-popping. The more technical term is:

defencestration.

This behavior is more popularly known as moronism.

To my knowledge, advanced defencestration is not yet an accredited course at any college in Southern Florida, Texas, or California.

Is Slats Dominoes their leader?

Although they undoubtedly never heard of him, were they subconsciously inspired by the late Pete Reiser, the indomitable if reckless major league baseball outfielder known for crashing into outfield walls and fences?

Do they sing "Don't Fence Me In" while performing?

Does their ritual include reciting lines from the play Fences?

They must be fans of the Boston Red Sox, because you just know they love Fenceway Park.

Where were they from 1961 to 1989?

Certainly not in Berlin. That wall just didn't have enough give, did it, kids?

Spell Right. . . .Or Die!

Spell right . . . or die!

I guess that's how it would've been in the Old School days of Marxist-Leninist rule in Russia. These days, if you screw up your spelling or grammar, you're just sent back to school. . . .rather than sent to a gulag in Siberia.

The governor of Lenin's hometown region of Ulyanovsk (who presumably is a flawless speller and grammarian) was so fed up with bad spelling and grammar that he ordered some 2,000 bureaucrats back to school.

What next? Serial killings as punishment for the the abuse and misuse of serial commas? Would these be commakaze missions?

What awards go to the "Most Imporved Speller"?

The Says-pool

I heard a radio commercial this morning referring to the Internet as the "information superhighway."

Whew, I hadn't heard that one in a long time.

I never felt that metaphor worked. It is typically invoked by advertisers promising high-speed Internet service, allowing users to drive up the information ramp quickly, yadda-yadda.

I'm reminded of something Henry David Thoreau wrote:

"We are in great haste to construct a magnetic telegraph from Maine to Texas; but Maine and Texas, it may be, have nothing important to communicate."

What is a good metaphor for the Internet?

I think it's more like a river, stream, or ocean.

Or maybe a gigantic pool. Yeah, that's it.

*The says-pool.

(Of course, you might argue for sees-pool, seize-pool, or cease-and-desist-pool. But I like the fact that says-pool captures two elements of the Internet: our wading in (or diving in) to a great sea of Something-or-other interlinked like that old game of Telephone, driven by "he said-she said-he said-she said-they said-it said" ad infinitum. That said, let me note that in real life a Google search of my real name nets thousands upon thousands of entries, and maybe as many as 90% are wrong in their attribution. Almost right, but not quite. And it's all a matter of the rippling effects of misinformation upon misinformation, which can never be corrected or amended.)

Laugh. Or....

Else.

* The coinage "says-pool" is copyright 2007 by The Laughorist, Pawlie Kokonuts, and his antecedents, precedents, and malcontents.

Kaizen, the Kokonuts Way

I like the term kaizen, with its evocation of ongoing improvement. (The folks at Kaizen Chronicles got me thinking about this. Kudos to them for quoting a Leonard Cohen song. By the way, guys, is Bo Steed a nom de plume, so to speak, of a porn star?!)

I forgot I had encountered the term in the workplace years ago, during an aggressive rampage of so-called Total Quality Management (TQM), continuous improvement, blah-blah-blah, et cetera ad nauseam. Of course, it was mostly a ruse, a vehicle for "lean manufacturing" (incidentally, we didn't manufacture anything), an opportunity to supposedly do your job better, so your position (as well as many other positions) could be eliminated, so the company could be sold, raking in oodles of money for the owners, the purveyors of "quality." (All of that did eventually happen.)

But Wikipedia informs me that true kaizen must be practiced with something called respect for people (why does Wikipedia put it in quotes, with initial caps?), or else it is something called kaiaku, which -- no surprise -- means "change for the worse."

I was wondering, though, is kaizen a polar opposite of the acceptance and resignation of zen?

Oh well.

How Now Tao Wow.

What about today?

Today my kaizen consisted of a total and complete, up and down, across and behind, under and over, cleaning of the Kokonuts domestic bathroom. Every spot. I started it because it bothered me to distraction. Not because I was asked to or was nagged or was guilty about it. (Sheesh, maybe it was because of my public letter about flirting in my previous post! (I inserted all that to see if Dr. Andrew and his legions weigh in.) (Enough already with the parentheses!) With my wife joining in, it soon became a collaborative, and rather fun, task. (Refreshingly and rarely collegial.) I told my daughter when we were done that we could eat off any surface in there if we so chose. This binge cleaning (initiated by a binge person) of course evoked evangelical and crusading thoughts such as, "hey, let's do this every Saturday!" (soon amended to "every other Saturday," since my spouse works every other weekend), almost immediately amended to "how about we just confine ourselves to this one day."

We would've enlisted the energetic resources of our young daughter, but she had an overnight guest over, so we went easy, making both of them haul out the detritus of old shampoo bottles, dusty ornamental things, and other junk.

This episode led to a spousal leisurely lunch at a North Side Italian bistro (another rare event) (daughter went with friend) (I even tried some latte; not for me), some residual soreness, a skipped afternoon nap (we were too late into the afternoon, past its nap-taking tipping point), and a fairly positive outlook on life while gazing out the window into the chilling but lambent northern sunlight.

Kaizen, the Kokonuts Way.

'Chill, Sil' Thrills As Hot Topic

I don't know what to make of the passionate press dueling of Silvio Berlusconi, 70, and his wife, Veronica Lario, 50. In a word, he's at the least a big flirt and his wife of 27 years is so pissed off she penned a letter to the newspaper her husband hates the most. She demanded a public apology, and more or less got it. Juicy stuff. I love it.

And I just love the picture in The Huffington Post of Aida Yespica, the delicious doll (pardon me, "Venezuelan showgirl") who was the target or victim or recipient of one of Sil's offhand passionate remarks.

Sil, the former papal ambassador to the Cayman Islands (correction: former prime minister of Italy), reportedly says things like, "With you I would go anywhere" or "If I weren't already married, I would marry you right now."

Doesn't every guy "joke" like that when faced with such mounting challenges?

C'mon, Ronnie (can I flirt with you, Veronica, and call you by such a casual name? Please? Pretty please?) You're as hot as that tart Aida (just kidding, Aida, baby!), and you're the same age as my wife. That's cool.

Let's just lighten up, shall we, kids?

Since I'm not running for office, let me just say, "Sil, buddy, you have impeccable Italian taste -- in wives and suits, and, um, colleagues and acquaintances."

Public Blogosphere Letter To My Wife:

Honey, I kid. All the time. You know me. Plus, I just can't help openly flirting (but not on TV like Sil). Can't hide the real me for long, can I? What's a little flirting? It's not as if I'm like billionaire Mr. Big, Silvio Berlusconi, sending out flowers from the Palazzo Chigi every day to some strange woman and telling the world I'm sending them to you. That's just not me. (Sheesh, who has that kind of dough?!) It's not like I'm fighting off Venezuelan showgirls (hey, Mr. Hugo Chavez, why didn't you bring Aida to your United Nations speech, huh?). Anyway, I apologize, in advance, dear. For not being like Mr. B. (Can't say it's for lack of trying, right?)

Ciao!

Laugh. Or.... Else.

p.s. I have attached a recent Euro photo of someone claiming to be Herr Laughorist in case Aida or Veronica need to see how rough things really can be.

Tschuss!

A Paean to the Pain of Multitasking

Multitasking.

I loathe the very word with its self-important, mutlisyllabic tut-tutting of schoolmistress- or drill-sergeant-inspired legalism; with its hidden "tit" and its phony "asking" and its stern "ulti"matum and its usurping pretender "king." And I despise the word's very origins, which describe the functions of a computer's central processing unit, as if we and our brains were no more than CPUs dressed up in so much flesh and neural wiring. And most of all I detest the reality of multitasking.

Quite simply, I ain't built for it. Call it ADHD, genetics, impatience, zen, Luddite Syndrome, or Old School, but it drives me to distraction. (Well, by definition, multitasking thrives on distraction, doesn't it? That's the secret fun of its legion of admirers.)

E-mails, phone calls, oral requests, written demands on real paper, taps on the shoulder, cellphone messages, electrodes attached to the cerebral cortex. Sort it all out. Prioritize (another loathsome word; why not rank?) it all. Do it all now. Do it all at once. Do it all perfectly.

At work we are besieged, inundated, swamped by multiple tasks competing for our attention and action. It's almost enough to send me packing, out the door, strolling off with a secret smile. Job ads clamor for candidates who excel at multitasking, as if proficiency in this were a badge of valor, an iconic medal of honor for those bloodied but unbowed in the mercantile wars.

I suppose so-called multitasking (also termed "engaging in polychronistic activities") has its place (you sex fiends out there will suggest soixante-neuf). I suppose real battlegrounds, ICUs, and homes may be suitable venues for multitasking ("honey, can you hold on that orgasm while I text back my boss on those merger numbers?").

But multitasking (hyphenated or not) is not for me.

Besides, does the pitcher pitch and bat simultaneously? Does the quarterback throw and receive at the same time? Does the pilot take off and land concurrently? Can a president (ahem, this president) successfully think and talk simultaneously? Should a soloist perform ensemble?

I say, do one thing and do it right, rather than five things simultaneously and shittily.

But that's little ol' me. Alas, I recognize I am sadly out of step with the modern world. (Or still haven't recovered from vacation.)

That's why I like the Latin phrase I suggest as an antidote for this current rage:

Age quod agis --

which means, "Do what you are doing" (and presumably, not something else at the same time).

Now, back to work, folks!

Laugh. Or....
Else.

Impacted Wisdom

Count me among those who dislike using impact as a verb. I didn't say it couldn't be justified or defended on linguistic and historical grounds, as pointed out by The American Heritage Dictionary and others.

But I don't have to like such usage -- or use it.

And if I do use impact as a verb, I want it reserved for one of its most literal meanings, which I experienced yesterday as a passenger in a car.

"The car I was riding in was impacted by a pickup truck advancing upon us from the rear, which forced our car to collide with the car in front of us."

Yes, collided is a better verb. (But the collision, or, um, adverse impacted event, also known as an accident, hurts just as much or causes as much damage.)

Along with others, I don't like impact as a verb because it smacks of smug jargon. A more specific verb (affected, influenced, harmed, deteriorated, corrupted, failed...) would convey the real intended meaning. But maybe the users of impact as a verb are trying to obfuscate. (I think the current vogue use is owing to the jargon employed in environmental impact statements.)

Anyway.

No one got hurt in the accident. I thought I'd be sore today, but wasn't.

There but for the grace of God go I.

(Hmmm, as noted in the link above, Wikipedia gives an informative history of that phrase, crediting John Bradford.)

It wasn't a semitractor-trailer bearing down on us.

I am reminded of Emily Dickinson's sobering words:

Because I could not stop for Death He kindly stopped for me. . . .